The word hung in the room,
clinging as they often do
to drapes of orange heritage,
fine syllables thus had become
the buzzing sound of liberation.
Gloved fingers pried and tugged
between the baby smoothness of
white, shaven legs, spread far,
and so reluctantly apart.
The midwife whispered slyly
'we do have dilatation! '
And then, there was a tuft
of caked and matted hair,
the vulgar sound of suck and gulp,
praised by the silliest ovation.
Well, that was you, my son,
no warts were visible back then,
only the rotten temper, yes
and those piano fingers,
your mother's perfect ears.
Then came the operation.
She'd bled that lonely night,
no troubles were expected,
there was no tear within
that would have justified
a curretage, or tamponade,
the afterbirth had come
with sudden ease, merci mon dieu.
But then, the devil's curse:
Twin separation.
Herbert Nehrlich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-your-doctor-you-trust/
